


Doctor's Orders

by Bofur1



Series: Where Sickness Thrives... [6]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Humor, Brother Feels, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Heart Conditions, Hurt/Comfort, Insults, Parent Death, Unpleasant Imagery, Violence, parental angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:51:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Óin is growing emotionally attached to Jánath, a little girl with a dangerously familiar heart condition, but Jánath's tightfisted father refuses to pay for her needs. Furious and upset, Óin goes to his brother Glóin, a father himself, for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor's Orders

Glóin jumped as Óin stormed into the house, slamming the door so hard that the windows rattled.

“...And if that self-righteous, uptight mug is too selfish to pay for her needs, he can go jump down the Khazad-dûm caverns! Or better yet, I’ll push him!”

Glóin was afraid to ask, but he did anyway. “W-What’s the problem?”

“Talek son of Dravek! That egotistic worm is my problem!” Óin shouted furiously, throwing his medical bag at the wall. “Arghh, I could strangle him, or poison him, or just perform a very _excruciating_ surgery on his genitals without anesthetics!” Noticing Glóin’s disbelief, Óin abruptly turned off his rage and slumped into a chair.

“Now, I’m listening. Tell me what happened,” Glóin offered. At Óin’s vehement expression he added hastily, “Slowly. Tell me slowly.”

Óin released a burdened breath. “Talek...his daughter Jánath is one of my patients. She has a heart condition...” His eyes dimmed and shifted to the floor. “...The same one that took Adad from us.”

Glóin lurched. In an instant he could feel the cold, sweat-drenched skin under his fingers as he pressed his hands to his father’s face, searching for life or recognition.

_“No, no! Say something, Adad! Please...”_

“She’s only twenty years old, still a Dwarfling. She’s in such suffering,” Óin continued quietly. “But Talek is so tightfisted with his money that he won’t pay for me to help her.”

“What kind of Orc-son would put money over his—does he realize how serious that condition is?” Glóin asked tremulously. “What it might do...” He gulped, his fingers creeping forward to wrap around his brother’s.

“I’ve explained the consequences of maltreatment,” Óin declared, his grip tightening on Glóin’s hand as his anger flared again. “Either he ignores me or says that I exaggerate ‘what could simply be a few stomach cramps’!”

“How could anyone be so ignorant?!” Glóin demanded.

“I don’t know what pack of Wargs raised him, but Talek doesn’t listen to me or his wife, Jétha.” Óin sighed despairingly. “I—I know she wants me to help Jánath. There’s this relief in her face whenever I come, but when Talek throws one of his fits she goes blank and silent. I _hate_ that!”

“Óin, listen to me,” Glóin raised his voice to be absolutely certain Óin could hear clearly, even with his half-deaf right ear. “You’re going over there tomorrow and I’m going with you.”

Óin shook his head. “No, I can’t. There’s nothing more I can do for Jánath—”

“Remember what you used to tell me?” Glóin cut in. “Never submit to the bully? Talek is a bully that has you in his sights, but you can’t give up. There is no excuse for ignoring a child’s need and we both know it. I’m a father myself; I might be able to get the message into Talek’s hard head. And besides, if anything gets out of hand, you know I can handle it.”

* * *

“What are you doing here?” Talek demanded angrily of Óin. “I told you yesterday—”

“I know exactly what you told me!” Óin barked. “But I’m coming anyway.”

“Your services are unneeded and unwanted.”

“I have free will,” Óin growled through clenched teeth. “I’m going to use it.” He moved to the left, allowing Glóin to step onto the porch next to him. “This is my brother. He’s coming to observe.”

Talek narrowed his eyes at Glóin. “He doesn’t look like much.”

“Neither do you,” Glóin countered. “It’s a cold morning to stand on the porch.”

“Talek, let them in,” Jétha, Talek’s wife, pleaded.

“You get two minutes,” Talek announced sourly.

“Nope,” Glóin disagreed smugly. “Óin gets however long he wants.” As he and Óin stepped into the house, Glóin inclined his head courteously at Jétha. “Mistress. Glóin, son of Gróin, at your service.”

“Oh, really,” Talek complained. “Must we go through all that?”

Jétha glared at her husband. “He was just being polite, Talek!”

“That’s right, Talek,” Glóin affirmed her statement, smirking. “Just being polite.”

“Dr. Óin?” a young voice called out. The adults turned to find a young Dwarf girl standing in the doorway of her bedroom. She was dressed in shabby nightclothes and her dark hair and beard fluff was messy, but her face was bright with a hopeful smile.

Óin’s stressful face softened. “Hello, Jánath. How are you?”

Encouraged, Jánath approached before her father could order her otherwise. “I’m doing a little better. The medicine you gave me helped.”

“Good to hear. By the way, Jánath, this is my brother, Glóin.” Óin gestured to Dwarf in question and Jánath smiled shyly.

“Dr. Óin talks about you a lot, Mr. Glóin. He says you have a son my age.”

Glóin nodded proudly. “Yes, Gimli. I might bring him over to meet you _next time we come_.” He enunciated the last part strongly and gave Talek a toothy grin. Talek glowered back.

“Well, _Doctor_? Are you going to examine her or not?”

Óin nodded, beckoning Jánath back toward her room. “C’mon, lassie, let’s listen to your little ticker.”

Jánath’s smile faded. “It hurts,” she announced somberly.

“Well, that’s understandable, what with the new weather. The Durin’s Day parties will be upon us soon enough. You sit up here.”

Talek, Jétha, and Glóin watched in the doorway as Óin helped the girl up onto the edge of her bed. He listened to her heart for a few moments, his brows furrowing.

“It’s skipping a bit,” he murmured in concern.

“I doubt that,” Talek cut in condescendingly. “Maybe it’s _your_ defect acting up. Your hearing was damaged in Erabor, was it not?”

“Adad!” Jánath cried, offended for Óin’s sake.

Glóin wouldn’t put up with that. He turned on Talek, growling, “Be careful choosing your next words, sir.”

“Please explain to me,” Talek continued, as though he’d not heard the obvious threat, “how someone like you became a doctor.”

“I became a doctor,” Óin snarled back as he rose ominously to his feet, “when my dearest friends came to me with burnt, crusting faces because of the Dragon’s rage! When my father fell to the same heart condition that plagues your daughter! When I fought with a spear pulled from my mother’s corpse in the Battle of Azanulbizar!” Óin’s volume spiked with his passion as he barked, “Tell me, sir, what battles have you seen that could even remotely compare?!”

“Are you calling me a craven?” Talek shouted.

“Finally you understand the direction where this is going!” Óin cried. “You neglect your wife and child to hide in your room and count your money like the gluttonous scrooge you are! And if you even squeak in denial—”

Talek didn’t wait for Óin to finish. He lunged, ignoring his daughter’s scream of alarm as he wrestled the elder son of Gróin to the ground. The fight was so quickly-paced that Glóin could barely track their progress before Óin was on top of Talek, slamming fists into places that only a doctor could know.

The dagger appeared next. Savagely Talek slashed Óin and slammed him against the rickety dresser.

Glóin saw the spray of crimson from Óin’s cheek and barreled into Talek, taking him against the back wall and prying away his hold on Óin.

Scrambling for Talek’s wife and daughter, Óin commanded desperately, “Get out, get out!” Urgently he herded them toward the door. As they dashed out of sight, Óin hoisted up the little three-drawer dresser. “Glóin, move!”

Glóin obeyed much better than he did in his surly teen years, somersaulting backwards as Óin brought the dresser down with a crash. Talek lay greatly dazed as Óin threw away the broken hunk of wood and picked up his knife.

“One thing I would like an answer to,” Óin announced grimly. “What is it about your daughter that you dislike enough to let her die? Is she not pretty enough, or smart enough, or maybe not _male_ enough for your taste?”

Talek was either still shaking off his daze or unwilling to respond. Glóin struck in snake-like fashion, locking him into a violent armbar.

“You better answer him and even if you do I’m still debating whether or not it’ll be the last thing you _ever_ —”

“Glóin, stop it,” Óin cut in. “Let him speak.”

Talek panted for a few moments. “I wanted a son!” he growled out at last. “Jánath—”

“It never ceases to puzzle me, the secret of favoritism,” Óin commented lightly. He crouched down to eyelevel with Talek. “Unfortunately, I don’t have an antidote for that poison.”

“You think I’m scared of you?” Talek spat.

A subtle but disconcertingly manic gleam rose in Óin’s eyes as the physician ran his fingers along the flat of the dagger blade. “You should be.”

“I’m not! You’re just a doddery old deaf, an isolated and displaced orphan who thinks he can save the world when he couldn’t even save his own mother and father!” Talek leaned into Óin’s face with bared teeth. “Examine yourself and your brother, Doctor, and tell me if you think your parents would be proud of what small people they sired!”

What marginal self-control Glóin had maintained abruptly snapped—as did Talek’s arm. Óin couldn’t even summon the words or strength to stop his brother as Glóin hoisted up the screaming Dwarf and literally hurled him through the window.

Jétha and Jánath watched in stunned silence as Óin and Glóin emerged from the bedroom, smoothing their beards and clothing. Óin knelt in front of Jánath, but the girl flinched when he made to put his hands on her shoulders. Óin withdrew his reach with a pained expression.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Stony-faced Glóin grasped his brother’s elbow and brought him to his feet.

“C’mon, Óin. There’s nothing more we can do here.” Tilting his head slightly toward Jétha, Glóin muttered, “Leave the trash out in the back.”

* * *

That evening, Glóin found Óin sitting atop a hill near their house, studying the sunset with the intentness of a thinker.

“You’re brooding again,” Glóin commented from behind him.

“How do you know?” Óin asked quietly without looking at him.

“You always fixate on the sunset when you are,” Glóin replied as he sank down next to Óin. “I remember that one time when I had to act the doctor and warn you about blinding yourself.”

The elder son of Gróin was silent. “I was thinking,” he said slowly, “about the things Talek said...the things about Ama and Adad.”

“Óin, he was just trying to rile us,” Glóin protested, adding after a small pause, “Admittedly he succeeded, but still.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Óin disagreed. “Glóin. Do you think...” Óin’s eyes were tentative when he glanced at his brother. “Ama and Adad...Do you think they would be proud of us?”

Glóin was shocked. “What kind of question is that?” he demanded. “You can’t possibly ask—”

Óin held up a hand to stop the imminent rant. “No, answer me. I want the truth: do you really, _really_ believe they would be proud of us?”

Falling silent, Glóin considered. He remembered their father, Gróin, and how he used to play chase with them and ruffle their hair and help them sneak extra helpings of dessert out from under their mother’s gaze. Their mother, Neanélla, soft-spoken except when something threatened the wellbeing of the family; it was then that she went to the wall to protect her sons and soothe her husband’s reckless ire.

Eventually Glóin opened his mouth, but what came out was not what he intended. “The portents couldn’t tell you that, eh?”

For the first time since Azanulbizar, Óin burst into tears.

* * *

Gróin slapped a hand to his forehead. “No, no, _no_!” He leapt to his feet, bellowing, “Glóin, that’s not the way to go about it!”

Neanélla interrupted him. “They can’t hear you, my dear, and even if they could...” She trailed off, shaking her head ruefully. “They must remember the answer on their own.”

Gróin gestured wildly to the scene below, of Óin stumbling blindly to his feet and Glóin trying desperately to apologize. “But, Nean! This—this is—!” he sputtered helplessly.

Neanélla placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder, her dark eyes serious. “This is our little ones _learning_ , however painful it may be. Óin will reconcile with Glóin soon enough and they’ll ponder the question together. Likely for some years if they haven’t gotten it through their rock-heads by now.”

Gróin grimaced, gingerly rubbing the place in his chest once used by an old, rickety heart, now replaced by an eternally unproblematic one. “I went too soon,” he sighed heavily. “There was so much more they needed to know!”

“There will be someone to teach them,” Neanélla assured him gently.

Gróin rolled his eyes. “Likely our nephew Balin. He’s certainly the know-it-all of the whole lot.”

“I heard that,” Fundin warned from behind. Gróin rose and turned toward his brother, fixing him with a hard stare.

“Really, Fundin! It’s not like you can hurt me; I’m already dead and so are you. We’re too old for rumbles.”

“Says who?” Fundin challenged. “I’ve looked over the shoulders of the scribes, my son included, and there are legends about me. Fundin the Fearless, tallest Dwarf in our history at six feet tall, undefeated champion of Erabor.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Although, if that part were true I wouldn’t be here.”

Gróin glanced back at Arda below, his worried gaze pinned on his sons. Glóin had caught up to his brother, buried his hands in Óin’s hair and pressed their foreheads together, pleading all the while for his forgiveness.

“Do your lads know that you’re proud of them?” Gróin asked sadly of Fundin.

Fundin pursed his lips. “I think so...I hope so.”

Gróin swallowed around a lump in his throat. “That’s all we can do for them here. All we can do is hope.”

 


End file.
